Chapter 1: Repose

“Are you sure this is all you want?” 

Sister Pansy placed the evening snack in front of Byleth. Toast and tea, again. The only thing she could face, butat least it was something.

“Couldn’t I tempt you with something more substantive?” Then, with an odd smile akin to a mother feeding her toddler, the nun added, “I believe Lord Gaspard is on kitchen duty this evening and is preparing a delicious stew!” 

Tempting me with Ashe’s cuisine. 

Ashe was an exceptional cook, and anything prepared by him would ordinarily be mouth-watering to Byleth. But her appetite was still non-existent at the moment, and very little was ‘appealing’ to her. 

Maybe I could stomach a stew, though… “Umm, what’s in the stew?”

“Fish, I believe.”

“No!” Byleth baulked, wrinkling her nose.

Usually, she didn’t mind fish, especially fish stew. It had been a staple during her childhood, given it was one of the few things Jeralt knew how to cook. Not well, but good enough until Byleth was old enough to take over. Now, the mere thought of fish was revolting to her. She couldn’t complain that fish had become the primary food source for the army, given they were encamped by a lake. But the feel, the smell, the taste of fish — ugh! 

“I am sorry, Pansy, but I don’t feel like I could face that right now.”

“Oh, Lady Byleth!” Pansy groaned, then immediately backtracked, but she may have over-stepped. “Forgive me, but I’m worried about you wasting away. This isn’t like you. Normally you could eat a pantry’s worth of food.”

Byleth shook her head defeatedly. 

Pansy sniffed. “I’ll see if I can find some cold cuts, then. And some potatoes. You need something other than bread, Your Grace.” She then gave Byleth a thoughtful look. “Are you feeling anxious?”

“Anxious?”

“About the upcoming battle, perhaps? Worry can take a toll on the body, they say.”

Byleth hadn’t thought of that. She had just assumed it was a bug. However, thinking about these bouts of nausea reminded her of something… The queasiness she felt before going to Remire Village. Remembering that only added to her present worries. This upcoming battle could be decisive, and they had already seen the extent to which Edelgard’s dark mages would go to win —turning ordinary people into mindless killers.

All of that was from a few drops of Flayn’s blood. 

They did it at Remire, then again at Gwydion — she couldn’t rule out it happening a third time at the Gwalchmei Ravine. 

And what if it is even worse? 

Byleth’s unbeating heart burned in her chest as though it were scorching a hole in her lungs. It made her feel light-headed again. She pressed her hands against her breasts as they ached in her corset. Then, looking down at her hands, she realised she was shaking. She hadn’t stopped all day, and she knew why.

Nader. 

Claude had expressed concerns that Nader might know about them before he had walked in on them that morning, mid-embrace, and judging by the bitterness Byleth spied in the general’s eyes, he had, indeed, known; Nader’s cold stare also revealed how much he wished he had been wrong.

“He won’t betray me,” Claude had vowed with a kiss. “I can promise you that.” 

The risk of being caught had never been too far from Byleth’s mind. Amid the throes of passion, she and Claude had even teased each other about it, and it had been an oddly arousing idea when the third party was faceless. They never named names; to do so would be to test fate, and no sooner than a face she knew crossed her mind did she think of Dimitri. 

What will he do when he finds out? 

Byleth hugged her waist, dreading the very idea of that. She didn’t even want to consider the possibilities. She had promised Claude — and yet!

I’m beyond remorse, but not fear.

Pansy rested her hand on Byleth’s forearm, jolting her out of her thought. Looking up, she saw the nun’s brow was wrinkled with concern. “Apologies, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to startle you — you looked miles away.”

The Archbishop-Queen shook her head slowly. “It’s fine. I… just have a lot on my mind.”

“Then, is there anything I can do to help, Your Grace? Anything at all?

Byleth managed a small smile.

“No. But thank you.”

Byleth couldn’t stay asleep. 

Hideous nightmares kept waking her, dreams that she was falling, the fall that killed her once. 

The light of Garreg Mach disappears overhead as she tumbles backwards, plunging further and deeper into the pitch-black of the Oghma Valley. She feels like she will fall forever…

Until she stops…

Byleth gasped awake, terrified to relive that part.

It had ended abruptly and in unfathomable agony; her back had slammed into the rock bed, winding her, rendering her breathless, unable to scream for the blood filling her lungs, tainting her tongue; every bone in her body shattered. Twenty-one years shot before her eyes, feelings of pride, shame and regret… followed by calm, warmth, and a soothing nothingness. 

She thought of her father. Begged him to forgive her…then her sight went blank.

Blank. Her eyes might’ve stayed black forever, but for Sothis and her heart. Byleth placed her hand over her chest, quiet and still. “My heart.”

That was what saved her. Had the crest-stone lodged in her chest been destroyed, she would be dead, lost and forgotten, smashed to pieces in a gorge.

“You have been blessed with Her power and resilience,” Rhea assured her. “This is normal for our kind. Sothis only slept when she was near death.” 

Near-death… Those words reminded Byleth of something Flayn sometimes said: “Sleep is like a little death, our beds cold stone slabs in our personal crypts…” 

Her little friend had a deep fear of sleep, and Byleth couldn’t entirely blame her. She had spent the better part of a year dozing after the final battle against Edelgard. It had been a great source of anxiety for Seteth, though Byleth personally was reassured by the fact that Flayn was semi-lucid, mumbling about fishing and the sea…

But Byleth’s powers had limits.

“I recommend you avoid overexerting yourself, Lady Byleth,” Seteth told her. It had been shortly before Bergliez started his rebellion. Byleth had been so run-down that day, how exhausted, strained and unhappy she felt. “It is not only physical trauma that could leave you in a coma; overusing your powers, your shield or even the Sword of the Creator itself could result in… a sleeping death, so to speak.”

Despite all their warnings, Byleth was not so harsh towards the Land of Nod. From time to time, she genuinely enjoyed the sensation usually only afforded by lying in bed or lightly dozing upright in a saddle. Occasionally, she wished she could lounge in a cosy bed, drifting in and out of sleep, floating between random musings and dreamlessness.

Byleth’s mind slipped back into a nightmare as vivid as the waking world. Her crested heart showed her the sickening dreams of a past never hers. Images that Sothis had experienced, or rather, their heart had been forced through. 

It always began the same… 

Byleth lay immobile in the Holy Tomb. Unable to struggle or scream, ghoulish shadows hold her down and cut her throat, carve out her heart and rip her limb from limb—

…An enormous, ghastly-like man grips the hilt of the Sword of the Creator — and Byleth feels as though his grip is around her neck.

Byleth tried to open her eyes. Stop! Please stop!  

Remarkable, beautiful creatures – shaped like birds, lizards, snakes, cats, tortoises, foxes, tigers, horses, deer, wolves and more – screech as they’re felled by dark mages and ripped apart for their bones. Nabatean bodies never rot, no matter how long ago they perished, so their corpses were a ‘precious resource’ to the enemy—

Make it stop, Sothis! Byleth begged. Make me wake up!

But Sothis couldn’t answer or help, as they were trapped watching the annihilation.

The people howl and cry, wailing for ‘Mother’.

“Lambs slaughtered by wolves.” 

The murderers’ leader, an evil snake, smirks at the carnage. 

“Dogs hunting foxes. These creatures are merely chattel, torn asunder by ravenous apes. Animals feasting on animals….” 

The fiend bids his allies — mages and ‘elites’ alike— to harvest the marrow, blood and organs. 

“Take their hearts; teach me their secrets! Show me what Sothis denied me!” 

One by one, thousands die. Humans. Nabateans. Not ‘animals’ but people! People! Bodies pile upon one another, and loud snaps ring through Byleth’s chest like an echo in a cave as bones are snapped like twigs—

Byleth woke. 

Gasping and reeling, drenched in a cold sweat, as though she had been drowning… and she felt queasy, too. 

Her hand smacked over her mouth.

Oh, no…

She wasn’t used to being unwell. The few times she was, it was after nightmares like these. Jeralt would rub her back, dab away the sweat and listen to whatever strange images she saw. It was one of the few times he truly felt like a father.

“It’s just night terrors, kid. Nothing that happens in your dreams can hurt you.”

She tried repeating those words to herself now. Then again, and again. “It’s only night terrors. Nothing that happens in my dreams can hurt me.” She fought to swallow the vomit…

No.

It was hopeless. Byleth felt the blood rush to her head, her saliva salty and thick…

I’m going to throw up.

Fortunately, she remembered to leave the bedpan beside her bed. Taking deep breaths, she grabbed it quickly—

She was sick, shivering uncontrollably as she hurled up bile and what remained of her tea and supper. 

“Lady Byleth?!” 

Pansy. Her voice was quiet and soft. 

Without a word, the blonde hurried to Byleth’s side and gently pulled back her hair.

There was no rhyme or reason to this malady. It came and went on a whim. Every time Byleth thought she might be getting better, a bout of queasiness or an unshakable urge to vomit struck her, bubbling in her throat in the morning, afternoon, or evening like foreboding doom. It wasn’t only nausea that was troubling her; her senses were going wild. Nothing tasted right, and every scent felt like an assault on her nostrils.

Eventually, Byleth felt confident enough to place the sick bowl aside.

Sister Pansy handed her a cup of water, which she gladly took. Taking loud glugs, the water tasted delicious in her mouth, tastier than any tea or wine. It was good to get the lingering, bitter taste from her mouth. 

Meanwhile, the nun covered the sick bowl and put it aside, sighing. 

“Your Grace, this isn’t…” she paused, taking a moment to consider her words. “You shouldn’t be like this. You’re a healthy young woman, yet you have been this way for over a week now, closer to two. I-I’m worried about you, especially with this battle coming up.”

Byleth puffed out a chuckle. “You sound like Claude!” Half-asleep, it took a second or two to realise how informal that had been. “I mean, His Royal Highness has expressed concerns, too.”

Pansy rolled on her heels. “Would you let me fetch a doctor, Your Grace?”

Byleth swallowed hard. I really ought to speak to a healer or physician. 

She wished Manuela was with them. She was one of the few doctors she felt comfortable with, one of the few who was aware of Byleth’s heart and – miraculously – took it in her stride. But Manuela had retired from military matters and focused all her efforts on paediatrics in the villages around Garreg Mach. 

Now Paul, the field doctor for the Kingdom army, was probably the physician who knew Byleth’s health best—

Aside from Atticus. She shivered, recalling his piercing eyes, sharp features and cold voice. Just thinking of him gave her the jitters. Every time Byleth spoke to Atticus, he would look at her with thinly veiled disdain. It was a stare she recognised and thought she had left behind with her mercenary days, along with the name ‘Ashen Demon’. She tried to ignore it, to choke down his revolting ‘remedies’ to ‘cure’ her infertility even as he implied what a waste of time it was… 

It might as well be poison.

But Paul was lovely. Cheery and talkative, the craggy-faced thirty-eight-year-old exuded approachability. Adrestian by birth and hailing from Bergliez territory, Paul had trained as a physician before being conscripted into the Imperial army when the Five Year War began. He largely remained in the rear guard serving as a medic. After Fort Merceus fell, Dimitri immediately called upon any healers to tend to the wounded on both sides, and Paul never stopped doing so. His mop of ginger hair had bobbed around the Faerghus army ever since. 

Yet every time Byleth resolved to give in and visit him, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Like her limbs were weighted down by shackles. She felt that way right now.

“It was a nightmare, Pansy,” Byleth replied, trying to reassure her attendant. “I’ve been getting a lot of them recently.”

“Hm.” 

Remembering their conversation, Byleth added. “Perhaps you’re right about it being stress.”

“Indeed.” Pansy sounded resigned. “So, I take it you don’t want me to fetch one of the physicians? I believe Nimura is still awake.”

Nimura was the Almyran physician. She and Paul had worked closely throughout this conflict, so much so that they were considered one unit now. Many female Fódlans had started speaking to Nimura about feminine issues, especially menstruation and the best stall spells to hold them off. It helped that she was pragmatic and discreet, almost like a sober (less man-hungry) Manuela. Jolly and tongue-in-cheek during moments of calm while being clearheaded and controlled when the blood flowed…

If anything, she might be a better choice.

Even so, Byleth couldn’t bring herself to speak to visit Nimura. Stupid as it sounded, she didn’t want anyone to think she was anything other than in top form. People look up to me, whether I like it or not. At least, that’s how she justified her reluctance.

“I’d rather not, Pansy.” And Byleth looked up to be confronted by Pansy’s glower. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

The scowl melted. “Apologies, Your Grace. I’ll do whatever you prefer.”

“Thank you.” Putting the cup aside, Byleth settled back down to bed. Still, Pansy looked upon her with an uneasy gaze. She decided to throw the nun a bone: “I promise, if I still feel unwell by the end of this week, I’ll speak to someone.”

“Hm. I shall hold you to that, Your Grace.”

That sounds like Claude could’ve said it, too. And Byleth couldn’t help smiling. “Good night, Pansy.”

“Ha, it’s morning now, my Lady.”

“Good morning, then.”

Pansy left, and Byleth was alone once again.

“If this is all a sign from you, Sothis, please, send me a sign.” 

She waited, but only silence followed. There was no voice in her head, not even her own. She missed Sothis. Her other-self. The closest thing to a mother she ever had. With the fusing of their beings, most of what had been solely Sothis faded into the recesses of Byleth’s mind. However, there were times when she thought she could sense Her within. But deep down, Byleth knew it was all Byleth. 

She rolled onto her belly and groaned. 

Something else, she thought wearily. Let me dream of something else. Not the Red Canyon. Anything else!

Breathing slowly, she begged her body to recover, conjure a less disturbing dream, and let her wake feeling better than she did now.

Settling back down, Byleth started to count backwards from one thousand. Another old trick from Jeralt. “Focus your brain on something boring; it’ll carry you off.” Usually, the complete rigidness and monotony would help her nod off again. 

Slowly, she felt her body switch off. Then, a voice arose from the depths as she reached that point between wakefulness and sleep. 

A Sothis-like voice. 

But it wasn’t Sothis. It couldn’t be. When Sothis used to speak to her, it was as clear as her thoughts rattling her eardrums. This voice was coming deep within, conjured by Byleth’s brain, trying to self-soothe. 

Yet, she listened:

“Pull yourself together! I’ll coddle you not. I will, however, scold you; I am beyond the ability to aid you. You have been caught in this never-ending cycle of denial for too long. As a mother watching her child from the great beyond, I am only a memory buried deep within – and that is how it should be. This is your life, girl! So, from the Beginning to the Resolution, from the old mother to the new – sleep! You must take better care of yourself. Your condition has left you—”

On that strange reprimand, Byleth was lulled back into a slumber…

Smoke fills Byleth’s nostrils as she runs through Miach Forest, her chest tight as she barely outruns the enemies pursuing her. She’s torn between pausing to fight them off or continuing to search for her lover—

No! Not this! Not this—!

She remembers this clear as day. She knows what’s about to happen.

Wake up! This isn’t happening.

But what if it is? What if everything before now was the dream? What if this was where she truly was, at this moment, trying to stop the death of all hope? 

Byleth only knows she has to find him. 

Dream or not, she cannot let it end like it did in that other place. All she can see is that forgotten timeline, that world she had unwritten with Divine Pulse. That dreadful place where the enemy had robbed Claude of his life and Byleth of all hope. It was as vivid now as when she first witnessed it; the weapon’s hew ripping through cloth, leather, skin and bone, scraping his spinal cord, rupturing his heart and exiting through his chest. How suddenly the light had died in his eyes, how swiftly his life was lost, and immediately his soul left his body. Byleth wanted to collapse under that sorrow. Scream, cry, scratch at her cheeks with the unbearable, unyielding despair that moment filled her with.

Not again. Never again!

Enemies leap in front of her, but Byleth throws them aside with a whip of her sword. Then, she whirls back and jams the Sword of the Creator through her pursuer’s gut. He yelps like a dying dog, slipping to the ground as her blade squelches free of his sinew, making her wince. 

She retches, but she keeps going. 

I’m close!

Byleth whirls around and spies him in the distance: beautiful, powerful and blazing with life. 

Claude.

Faster than the flow of time, swifter than the speed of light, she flings herself toward him.

“Behind you!”

Hearing her, Claude spins around and unleashes an arrow, felling the enemy behind him through the eye socket. Crumpling like paper, the black smudge folds in on itself. Dead, and no one would be reversing time to save them. 

Byleth hated killing. Senseless, bloody killing, but Goddess! Seeing Claude’s would-be murderer struck down by Failnaught’s barb was a relief. It was profuse.

We cannot be safe unless we’re together.

He says nothing as Byleth stands back to back with him. For the first time, her eyes fall upon the fallen foe. Beneath their beaked hoods, these fiends were only human. Not monsters or demons. Just people, no different from Claude or herself.

Why do they keep doing this?

Side-by-side, she and Claude fight until the woods falls eerily silent. No enemies. Not another ally in sight. All was quiet but for the sound of their breaths. The world is still.

Claude asks her if she’s alright, his touch on her shoulder sending curls of comfort and fissions of lust through her body.

He’s alive. Here with me.

Even with a slight queasiness rising in her throat and dizziness making her feel unsteady on her feet, she looks to him and knows he is the cure. So, she takes his hand and pulls him further into the smoking woods.

Everything in the universe shrinks when his pulsing manhood squeezes into her eager body. Feeling him beneath her hands, wrapped between her legs… The love in her heart is overpowering. All she wants is to be his, only his… 

This is what it means to be alive, what love is meant to be.

The shadow of his death lingers on the tip of Byleth’s mind. She screeches with delight and growls in frustration, knowing how easily she could have lost him. She grips his nape hard and runs her fingers through his hair as though doing so would allow her to touch the soul housed within his brain. 

Hold it. 

Protect it. 

I love him so much.

Byleth kisses his lips, chapped and dried from heavy breaths and wild kisses. 

“I love you.”

She throws her head back, lungs unleashing an exhilaration caterwaul, body filled with ecstasy.

“Never. I’ll never lose you again—!”

He gives one last, powerful thrust, and she feels his release flow from him, scolding cum filling her, spilling out between their joined flesh and trickling down her thighs. 

Overflowing. 

It feels so satisfying, filled to the brim with his life…

The Archbishop-Queen awoke a few hours later. 

She felt the dampness and pulse of desire between her legs, aroused by her frantic memories. It had ended in delight — but she knew the madness and trauma of that day in Miach Forest would likely haunt her forever. Losing Claude in such a sudden and brutal way was pain beyond register, more agonising than dying herself.

Byleth took a quivering breath.

A world without him, short-lived as it had been, did not bear contemplating. It was absent of light and bereft of love. She succeeded in turning back time and saved him from the jaws of eternity. Then, she led him into the charred grove and relished how alive he made her feel.

That was when it hit her. 

Everything a person is: their life and light, are vulnerable and fleeting. 

And it could be stolen within a second. 

Leaving the world empty.

Byleth buried her face in her pillows, finding her own dull scent there. She missed having his natural musk soothing when going to sleep. It had made her reluctant to change her bedclothes. But she’d had to — and she couldn’t risk Pansy or Fern getting their hands on them. Not after the other night. She had fought off her illness and resolved to wash them herself. Catherine had been there cleaning her undershirts and wondered that Byleth was still happy to get her hands dirty.

“I think the world of Lady Rhea, but I can’t imagine her washing her own bedsheets.” Still, she had offered to help her peg them out to dry. “Though if it starts raining, try not to blame me, okay!”

It had started raining, so Byleth needed to dry them by the fire. 

Later that night, wrapped in her new, freshly laundered linens, Byleth missed the familiar aroma of Claude’s hair on her pillow. It had been made all the harder not being able to see him all day.

Then, she received his little note letting her know the plan was ready and—

Byleth didn’t finish that thought. 

She sat up. It was still dark out, and fragments of her dreams lingered in her mind. With a sickly taste in her mouth, she nibbled on a plain, dry cracker, the tiny bites helping to ease the queasiness. She ached all over and yearned to scorch herself in a bath.

Light, icy rain started falling outside as she placed the first cauldron over the fire.

As the water boiled, she spied a yawning Fern. 

Fern was the youngest and de facto dogsbody of the so-called ‘Flower Sisters’, former servants to Rhea and inherited by Byleth upon ascension. They were not truly sisters; all three were high-born maidens but dumped by their families in the Church when it was revealed they didn’t have a crest. Rhea told her there had been many more once, though most ended up retreating to a life of crime in Abyss upon coming of age, and those that had remained in service to Goddess had died during Edelgard’s siege on Garreg Mach.

Now only Malva, Pansy and Fern remain, Byleth recollected. She often wondered who their original families may have been or whether any of the women cared to find out.

As Byleth carried the first bucket of boiling water inside, Sister Fern spotted her. The woman’s mousy-brown hair poked out from beneath her simple wimple, and her pale-blue eyes were heavy, betraying a sleepless night.

Just like me.

Their eyes met.

Fern gasped. 

Byleth fought a grimace. Here we go. 

“Oh! No, no, no! Your Grace, Your Grace! Let me do that!”

“I’m filling my bath,” she answered quickly, holding the bucket’s handle tight as Fern tried to rip it away from her. “Careful, it’s hot!”

“It’s my job to assist you, so let me prepare it for you!”

After two years of being the queen and archbishop, Byleth still couldn’t get used to pious servants offering to fulfil every task on her behalf. Yet even among these people, Fern was incredibly enthusiastic.

“I prepared it myself the other day.”

 “But you could scold yourself!”

 “I never have before,” Byleth mumbled, not knowing what else to say. “You can trust me not to burn myself.” Then, pouring the water into the tub, she shook her head. “See. It’s fine.”

Fern sulked. She was no longer a child, but she was young for her age. Before travelling with Byleth on this campaign, she had seldom left the monastery, and her world no larger than a one-hundred feet radius from Byleth.

“I cannot accept that!” she asserted in a weird, chirpy snap. “It’s my purpose to serve you.”

Byleth sighed. 

The young nun pulled the bucket from her hands, declaring. “I will fill the tub!” 

She’s as tenacious as Cyril, Byleth thought wearily. “It’s my job, and I’m going to do it!”

“Calm down, Sister Fern,” came a voice from behind her. Both women were greeted by Pansy’s weary face. “If you must insist on badgering Her Grace – oh, cover your mouth when you yawn, for Goddess’s sake! Are you trying to catch flies like an idle pitcher plant?”

Byleth caught the tail end of the offending yawn out of the corner of her eye. Fern lowered her eyes, clearly cowed. “S-Sorry, Pan. I didn’t sleep well last night—!”

“Ahem. Sister Pansy,” the elder snapped back. “We are in the presence of Her Grace, remember.”

“Sorry, Pan—Sister Pansy,” Fern spluttered. “I guess I’m still tired.”

“Hmph. As I was saying, if you want to snatch buckets from your mistress like a sulky child, you may as well fetch some more water.” Pansy waved her off. “Chop, chop.”

Fern took off as though her arse was on fire, and Byleth couldn’t suppress an exhausted sigh. 

Pansy shook her head, cocking an incredulous eyebrow in the direction her’ sister’ had run off. “I’m sorry about her, Your Grace. She’s been especially rowdy recently.” Shaking her head, she let out a heavy sigh. “Would you like some tea?”

Byleth noted the bags under her eyes and felt guilty. “Maybe you should go to bed.”

“No, no,” Pansy said, swallowing. “I’m here now. Besides, someone has to reign in Fern.” 

She immediately began stripping down Byleth’s cot, peeling back the bed covers as though to change them.

“I already washed them, Pan,” Byleth reminded her quickly.

The blonde woman stopped, staring at them and seemingly weirdly disappointed – guilty – at the realisation that she didn’t need to change her mistress’s bed. 

“You did?!” To Byleth’s surprise, Pansy looked affronted. “But you needn’t worry about things as trivial as this, Your Grace.”

“I’m sorry?” Byleth replied, a little dumbfounded. 

“Is there something unsatisfactory about how I washed them previously? I can change the routine if you have a preference.”

Byleth was a little bewildered that she was taking this so personally, shaking her head with no words to say. Pansy then quickly sniffed the blanket as though ‘checking’ they were new… “Evaluating my work now, ‘Sister’ Pansy?”

The nun dropped it in shame, cheeks red. 

“A-Apologies, Your Grace.” She patted her rosy cheeks, making Byleth smile some. It humanised her. “They are faultless.” Quietly, she picked up a pillow to fluff, battering it viciously. “Just as well you did it yourself, I suppose. If they had been left until today, Fern would have been responsible for cleaning them—”

“Don’t you mean Sister Fern?”

The Holy Sister raised her eyes to meet Byleth’s tiny smile. A smile she managed to return, despite how irritated she felt. “Sister Fern. I should practise what I preach, shouldn’t I?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.” Pansy tended to be a little too prim and proper. Not through haughtiness, as far as Byleth could tell; it was her nature. So, these moments when she loosened up a little felt especially rewarding.

“Um, actually,” Pansy began but shook her head, saying nothing. “No, never mind.”

Byleth tilted her head thoughtfully. “No, what is it?” 

“I probably shouldn’t bother you with this…?” 

“Please, tell me.” Byleth needed a distraction, and the idea of solving someone else’s problems seemed like a gift. 

Pansy bit her lip. “May I be frank, Your Grace?” Byleth nodded. “Thank you. Between us, Your Grace, I’m a little… concerned about Fern, um, Sister Fern.”

“Concerned.” 

“Yes, that she’s regressing.” 

“Huh?” Getting to her feet, Byleth walked over to help Pansy make the bed. She picked up her throw to air out and fold. “How do you mean?” 

Pansy hummed, picking up the other pillow. “Honestly, she’s all over the place. She’ll leap to do all the work she can whenever you’re around to see, but it’s like covering a birdcage with a blanket whenever you’re out of sight. Sometimes, I catch her inert, staring off into the middle distance with her head in the clouds.” 

“That is weird,” Byleth muttered, folding a sheet slowly. “She’s usually pretty sharp,” 

“Exactly!” Pansy exclaimed, dropping the pillow roughly. Her tone was passionate and her voice lighter, as though these thoughts were waters held back by a dam. “The other day—!” she stopped, realising that Byleth was helping her with her work. She pointed, saying, “You don’t have to, Your Grace.” 

“Come on. It’s me. I don’t mind,” Byleth said, shaking her head. “Go on. What happened the other day…?” 

“Well,” Pansy hesitated before continuing. “I caught her sitting, face like a slapped backend, while Master Cyril chopped wood for her. It’s so unlike her to be work-shy, let alone to ask Cyril to help her with her chores!” 

That was strange. From what Byleth could remember, Fern was never one to shy away from hard work. If anything, she was a ‘girl Cyril’. Rhea had pre-warned about Fern’s work insecurity and how prone to jealousy she was, relating a tale about how she wept uncontrollably when Cyril once cleared and replaced the logs in Rhea’s fireplace before Fern could get to it. 

“Poor thing was hiccupping about how he ‘made her look lazy’ and ‘always had to make everything a competition!” explained Rhea in that bubbly, arch tone she seldom used in public. “I comforted her but had to scold her for weeping over something silly!”

Something must’ve happened. For the briefest, coldest and most worrisome moment, Byleth wondered if she had seen something, specifically between her and Claude. Now Nader knew, Byleth’s mind had begun running through all the stolen moments and realising how Dimitri could have probably walked in at the height of pleasure, and she wouldn’t have noticed…

Byleth looked down, picking her following words carefully. “Do you think she’s upset about something?” A careful pause. “Do you think it’s something I could have done?”

“You…?” Pansy’s voice trailed off.

The Archbishop-Queen felt on the edge of a precipice and a second away from tumbling in. 

Do you know Pansy? She was the Flower Sister who Byleth spent the most time with, so if anyone had noticed something, it was her. Or, had Byleth inadvertently given herself away right now to a woman who wouldn’t have doubted her for a second before this moment? Do you know about Claude, Pansy?!

That question didn’t make it past Byleth’s lips.

“Me,” she replied instead. “Maybe she’s overcompensating by being extra… attentive to me? To avoid suspicion?” Her pitch rose with that last question, knowing that her questions would only serve to make Pansy charier. For her part, Sister Pansy seemed absorbed in a thought Byleth would have paid far more than a penny for. “Is that… possible?”

Pansy looked down at Byleth’s bedding again, pensive. Then, her sky-grey eyes met Byleth’s ocean green in a subtle, sideways glance. 

Do you know about Claude, Pansy? A worrisome thought. Does anyone else know?!

“Your Grace, if that’s—!”

Pansy stopped immediately; Fern had returned. She gently eased the folded blanket out of Byleth’s grasp, offering her a kind smile before shooting a somewhat steelier stare at her’ sister’. Filling the cauldron with water, the younger nun was perched over it like a witch brewing a potion. 

Watching her, Byleth felt a pulsing lump in her throat. Did she see something? Hear something? Even smell something? Claude on her bedsheets, his scent, cum… a strand of hair on those sheets Byleth had tried so hard to keep out of her grabby servants’ hands—?

Overthinking won’t give me the answers I seek.

She walked toward the youngest Flower Sister. 

“Everything okay, Fern?”

Her massive blue eyes gleamed in the light of the fire. “Absolutely!” A toothy grin that looked almost unsettlingly manic. “I’ll have your bath filled in no time, Lady Byleth.”

“Because…” 

The Archbishop glanced behind her at Pansy, who had now fallen completely silent. I shouldn’t drop her in it; I can’t single one nun out over the other. She positioned herself between them. 

“I know you take your jobs seriously, ladies. But while I am Archbishop, I am not Rhea. I can fill my own bath and make my own bed.”

Fern gasped. “But we wish to be as useful to you as we were to her, right Pan—?” she stumbled, quickly correcting herself. “Um, Sister Pansy.”

Pansy gave her an uncertain smile. 

“Indeed.” Then, her gaze drifted to Byleth. “Lady Rhea used to say we were indispensable to her.” Lady Rhea said that to nearly everyone. Even Byleth felt awash with joy whenever she received a “Well done, child!” from her, like one of the monastery’s cats begging for a fish or a child seeking approval from their mother. No one could make people feel as valued as Rhea did.

“And Lady Rhea trusted our work ethic,” Pansy added, narrowing her eyes at Fern. A beat. A knowing beat. “And our discretion. Isn’t that right, Fern?”

Byleth’s eyes widened a little. What’s that supposed to mean, Pansy? 

Fern tugged at the neck of her wimple awkwardly, avoiding Pansy’s eyes wilfully, sensing the ire in them was exclusively for her. 

“Yup, yup. Definitely.” She didn’t look at Byleth, ogling the cauldron as though beholding some sacred treasure. 

“Um,” she hummed nervously, wrangling her hands. “It must seem silly to you, Lady Byleth. But being close to you… well, we like it. Right, sis?”

Sister Pansy opened her mouth to scold but stopped. 

“That’s right, sis. You needn’t be embarrassed at receiving our help, Your Grace. It’s what we’re here for. You say you are not Rhea, but Lady Rhea, too, made her own bed or lit her own fires, but…!” She smiled nostalgically. “Lady Rhea knew how much we wanted to help her. We’re orphan girls, abandoned by our parents for not having crests.” Pansy smiled wistfully, “She gave us purpose.” 

Byleth didn’t know what to say. It reminded her so much of Cyril, how much he idolised Rhea. The Gonerils had mistreated him for being Almyran, yet Rhea gave him a place at Garreg Mach. Same with the Remire orphans and the children from Kostas’s and Miklan’s bands, all with nowhere else to go. There were so many lost children in this world. Even Byleth herself. She was an adult when Jeralt was killed but hadn’t felt like one. How often had death almost claimed her father’s life before that, and how close was Byleth to being yet another parentless child without anywhere to go? Would I have ended up in the Church, Abyss, or another bandit scraping by…? When considering that last possibility, it made sense that Cyril, Pansy and Fern looked up to Rhea as their saviour.

But I’m not Rhea.

“I’m happy that you feel you have a purpose here,” Byleth said, carefully choosing her words. Thankfully, she remembered the perfect topic switch. “I’ve been asking you both how your studies are going. Do you think you’ll be ready for your certifications soon?”

Though she had only been a teacher for a short time, interest in the educational pursuits of her peers was a habit that refused to die. And it helped calm her nerves from that recurring fear niggling at the back of her head of whether either of them knew something.

“Would it please you if I were to become certified?” Fern asked.

Byleth smiled encouragingly. “It would, but do you want to do that?” Not everyone was made for the battlefield, after all. And there’s no shame in that. Mercedes and Dorothea were not ‘made’ for war, but circumstances forced them into that role. “It’s your life, after all.”

“Well…” Fern fluttered her eyes shyly, speaking through a girlish giggle. “You’re so strong and bright, Lady Byleth. Serving you is not my only purpose. I must protect you, too! And I can’t do that if I’m not a fighter.” A blush rushed to her cheeks. “I want to protect you from anything and anyone. To serve you to the death, Your Grace.”

To the death? Byleth didn’t want people to ‘die’ for her. It was one thing to risk – or lay down – your life to save your friends and allies. It was another to value another’s life over your own because you think, somehow, they are worth more. 

Or worse, that you are worthless.

“Fern, that’s—” Please don’t!

“Fern, the cauldron isn’t properly over the flame!” Pansy cried out, smothering a yawn.

Sure enough, it was swinging off-centre. 

Fern squeaked in embarrassment, using the wood block to push it properly into place. It was an exhausting realisation for Byleth, knowing a job that would’ve taken her forty minutes would now take much, much longer. 

Fern looked sheepish. “Um, sorry!”

Byleth shook her head and turned to Pansy. “What about you?”

“Your Grace?”

“Certifications. I still think you would make an excellent War Cleric.”

It was true. Despite Pansy having no combat experience, she was impressively strong and physically robust despite being no taller than Byleth. Her knowledge of white magic and hand-to-hand combat was improving swiftly, but Pansy’s most impressive skill was her use of daggers — especially throwing them. It was a talent Byleth had seldom seen outside drunken tavern games or Edelgard’s death knell. And unlike those examples, Pansy was a crack shot.

“Well, if Sister Fern is correct about one thing, it’s that I must protect you.” 

Byleth sighed. “Remember to protect yourself, too.”

“I intend to, Your Grace. I only hope a time will come when you trust me enough to take care of your laundry myself.”

Outside, a light shower began. 

Byleth sat to watch it. 

The camp business carried on around her. Fern dutifully waited for the cauldron to boil. Pansy made the bed. The rain gave way to the rumble of thunder and a quick, sudden downpour pelting into the ground; everything smelt of earth and grass. Byleth saw soldiers and knights run for cover. She spied Lysithea and Cyril amongst them, sheltering under his cloak as they ducked into the former’s tent. 

Seeing them together made her smile. 

Byleth was still feeling nauseous. Sometimes, she would wake to her body shaking, saliva thick and the compulsion to vomit overwhelming, while other times, she could ignore it — until she encountered an unpleasant odour or taste. Then, there was no holding it in. Worse still, it had changed her appetite and taste entirely. Byleth seldom turned down most foods, but she enjoyed sweet, fruity things. But now, her stomach dropped whenever someone reached for a caddy containing her usual favourite blends of Honeyed Fruit, Sweet Apple or Bergamot. 

As for the cookies and cakes now at risk of mould, she saw no other option than to gift them to the sugar fiend. Receiving Byleth’s candy stash had bedazzled the tow-haired mage. 

“Are you sure you’re happy for me to have all of it?!”

“Please do. I can’t even serve these for others at tea time. The smell is too…!” Byleth recoiled in discomfort, in the moment and at the memory. “I’m really, really off-sweet things at the moment, and I don’t know how long it’ll last. The tea and jam will last, but my biscuits and cakes will go bad soon. Best they go to someone who’ll ensure none of them goes to waste.”

Lysithea beamed brightly. “Well, I definitely won’t say no to this bounteous gift. I hope you won’t regret it and ask for it all back in a few days.”

“I won’t, I promise.” 

Even if Byleth’s taste buds recovered next week, the likelihood of these treats surviving that long in Lysithea’s hands was… slim.

Sure enough, when Cyril came by Byleth’s study in the war tent later that evening, he relayed that she had already devoured two-thirds of a box of Fhirdiad speciality macarons; there were twenty in each box.

“Where does it all go?” Byleth wondered aloud. Despite how many sweet things Lysithea inhaled daily, she never seemed to get any bigger. “Maybe she has a second stomach?”

Cyril tutted, pondering. “No idea. Though, I could say the same ’bout you, Lady Byleth. I’ve never seen anyone eat as much as you, yet you never seem to put on weight yourself. I reckon you have yourself a couple of stomachs tucked away in there!”

Byleth smiled. Actually, she found it harder to keep off the weight these days despite not being nearly as hungry. Probably a by-product of getting older.

“Well, actually, my appetite’s shot at the moment.” She was becoming picky, her infamous insatiable hunger wholly gone! “That’s why I gave Lysithea the sweeties in the first place.”

“It was awfully nice of you, don’t get me wrong. It’s just I worry she’s filling up on sweets and not eating anything, y’know, good for her. I don’t want to sneak veggies into her food because that’s like lying, but it worries me how she picks carrots, peas and even onions out of her meals. It’s not healthy!”

Byleth smiled wittingly. “You should tell her that.”

“I tell’er all the time she needs to eat more veggies and shouldn’t put so much food in ‘er mouth, but she scoffs. Then, she shoves in two or three biscuits at a time, stuffing her face like a squirrel. I’m worried she’s gonna choke!”

“Not that she should eat more veggies or slow down eating; tell her you’re worried about her. Believe it or not, she cares more about what you think about her than the rest of us.”

Cyril’s cheeks grew a tad darker. “Thanks, Lady Byleth. I just don’t wanna upset her. She has too many things to worry about without me stressing her out…” his voice trailed off, brow twitching with some emotion.

A sorrowful pang shot through Byleth’s chest, knowing precisely what he was getting at. “I know you want to make her as happy as possible. But I meant what I said. If you’re sad, she’ll be able to tell; if you don’t, tell her why… Well, she’ll worry. So, you may as well be honest.”

He gritted his teeth.

“Ah, I’m sorry, Profess—um, Lady Byleth. I’m just overthinking everything. But…” and he smiled genuinely, “I’ll keep what you said in mind. Anyway, I’d better get going. Thanks for the talk!” 

The young archer turned to leave.

But then, he spun around, gripped with panic. “Um, about what I said. Y’know, about Lysithea lookin’ like a squirrel, keep that between us, okay?”

Since becoming a ‘grown-up’, Lysithea was a lot less self-conscious about stuffing her face with sugary goodies; her new pet peeve was people comparing her to woodland creatures. Or rather, she hated it when Claude pointed out how she “stuffs her face like a squirrel preparing for winter!” 

Thinking of that made Byleth chuckle. “I’ll not breathe a word, Cyril.”

The rain abruptly grew heavier, shifting Byleth’s thoughts. Its sound aroused memories of the cave by Lake Awen. She yearned to return to that moment, that time. A time when Byleth was comforted by the fact that no one knew about her and Claude. Where she could be swept up in her lover’s embrace, and that was all she need think about: how perfect he looked, skin cloaked with rain and sweat; his natural musk mixed with the sultry scent of chamomile, lavender and spice; his enigmatically smile at her; his fingers against her, running through her hair, every inch of him fitting against her as though they were forged for one another…

Pansy’s voice intruded on her thoughts as she opened one of the tea caddies. “Bergamot, Your Grace?”

Byleth couldn’t imagine anything worse. Even from where she sat, the sickly fruity-sweet leaves assaulted her nose.

“Your Grace?”

The Archbishop shook her head, trying to hide her disgust. She didn’t want Fern or Pansy to know she was feeling sick. Especially Pansy. After last night, Byleth was not quite ready to keep her word about speaking with Paul or Nimura.

“Cinnamon,” Byleth responded at last. She was still kicking herself for not acquiring more from the Morfisian merchant before leaving Garreg Mach. “Use it sparingly.”

Behind them, Fern clumsily tipped the now-hot water from the cauldron into the bucket to carry it to the tub. It was so unsteady that watching her made Byleth uncomfortable. 

I wish she’d just let me do it. 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Fern!” Pansy groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “At this sluggish pace, Her Grace would do better to run naked in the rain to clean herself.”

Fern bit her lip. “Sorry, Pan.”

“Sis—oh, never mind!” Pansy grumbled, rubbing her eyes. She looked so drained. “It’s too early to wake poor Malva, so do your best. Let me finish this, and I’ll help you.”

“Just let me do it—!” Byleth began.

Overawed, Fern screamed, “No! I’ll get help! Wait here!” 

She dashed frantically into the rain before anyone could raise a protest.

How did the simple act of wanting a bath become so fraught? 

Byleth felt heavy. Queasy, cranky and sleepy. Her back was sore, and her breasts were tender. All I wanted was to sit in a bath and forget everything for an hour! Before, she’d had to get ready and face the day, face the war council. She cringed. She wasn’t looking forward to that meeting. This would have to be the first time seeing Nader since…

She didn’t want to think about that right now.

I can’t wait for that bath.

Her wait was over three-quarters of an hour, and one cup of tea later. Filling the tub went much smoother once a couple of men arrived to help Fern. But still, the nuns continued to bicker, squabbling over who should help Byleth remove her nightdress and put on her robe. 

“I’ll do it myself!” she declared to end it. 

Then, when she finally emerged, she found them waiting beside the bath. Byleth realised they would stay and watch unless she ordered them to go. 

“Thank you. I can manage from here.”

“Are you sure you won’t need help, Your Grace?” Fern pushed, staring longingly at Byleth’s pale-teal locks. “If you’re washing your hair, I would love to stay and help…!” 

“You should get some breakfast, Fern,” Byleth said kindly. “It might wake you up.”

“No, no, it can wait! If your hair needs washing—”

“My hair is fine.”

“But—” Fern’s voice was only stopped by a long, loud yawn.

Swallowing the tension, Byleth tried to keep her temper. It was sweet of Fern to offer, it really was, but these two were getting on her last nerve. “Fern, I’m very grateful for your offer, but…” I want to be alone now…

“Come, Fern,” Pansy groaned, rubbing her temples, now entirely forgetting to add ‘Sister’. “Get your breakfast and maybe some coffee to wake yourself up.” 

Byleth wrinkled her nose at the mention of coffee – imagining that smell hurt her head. 

“Let us leave the archbishop in peace.” 

Byleth stood awkwardly, not knowing whether to apologise or not. The pair started to vacate the tent before she could fully decide.

Ushering the younger nun out, the elder gave Byleth a stiff nod. “I shall be just outside if you need me.”

“You should go to bed.”

“Once you’ve left for the meeting, I will.”

At long last, they left.

Drawing the modesty curtain, Byleth puffed out a long, relieved breath. Stripping off her dressing gown. At least she would finally be alone and not have somebody hovering over her. She eagerly stepped into the water’s prickling burn, and its deliciously inviting heat washed over her naked flesh. Her legs, shoulders, lower back and even her breasts felt sore, so this was precisely what she needed. 

The bath was a sacred place for her. It was one of the few places where she could go to be alone and where no one could interrupt her. But this little tin tub wasn’t the most comfortable object to bathe in. Fidgeting a little, Byleth hung her arms over the side and lifted her leg up in the air to stretch it with a satisfying grunt. 

One thing she missed about the Archbishop’s tower at Garreg Mach was her toilette. The bath was a large, stone one with enough room to recline, twiddle her feet with room to spare and running water heated by the same furnace that kept the communal showers and sauna hot. Next to nothing compared to the comfort of lazing around in that bath before bed. 

This will have to do for now.

Byleth rubbed oil over her tender breasts, sighing at the ache. She traced the ugly white scar at the valley between her breasts and thought of the few people who had gazed upon it. She recalled the shock in Dimitri’s eyes when he first saw it. Then, the fascination in Claude’s when he did, tracing it with his tongue, digits lazily circling her nipples taut…

Leaning her head back, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift.

She recalled the first time Claude spent the night in her chambers. They never intended to continue what happened in Almyra once they crossed Fódlan’s Throat, as though Almyra existed in another universe and nothing that happened on its soil counted. 

Even when reunited with Dimitri, it had unnerved Byleth how easy it had been to pretend and convince herself she would make peace with her wild indiscretion.

The treaty was signed, and Claude left for the Throat. 

That was the hard part. Watching him go had been torturous, especially under Dimitri’s watchful eye. Never had her lack of expressiveness played so utterly in her favour. Her face likely looked carved from marble; she had felt so weighed down by the heaviness in her heart.

So, it had been a shock when she retired to her chambers a few days later to find him standing on the Starry Terrace; he had snuck back to speak with her one last time. Her abdomen quivered at the memory, as it had excitedly done when she saw him…

“What are you—?”

Claude’s timbre is teasing yet nervous:

“I had a hunch. A hope. That you might want a proper goodbye.”

It was one heck of a presumptive hunch, and it took nerve to come back here like this.

Throwing all caution to the wind for one last dance with her had overcome Byleth. That familiar, pleasant throb between her legs began anew. Never had she rushed so keenly into another’s arms.

As they make love, a fatalistic confession escapes Byleth’s lips.

“I love you.”

She speaks without thought, so filled with adoration, pleasure and joy.

But Claude’s body stutters with impact. “Say it again.” Byleth met his fierce eyes. “Say it again, By.” He’s pleading, praying that this is no silly slip of the tongue. That is when she realises the tremendous force those words carried. How much truth!

“Please?” her lover asks again. “Say it, so I know I didn’t imagine it. Please! Tell me I’m not dreaming, and this isn’t just my selfish brain wanting—ouch!”

Byleth pinches Claude’s nipple. Hard. When he cries out, she sweetly coos with sympathy. 

“Sorry, I only wanted to prove you weren’t dreaming.” Smirking, she leans in and whispers the words he wants right into his ear. “I love you.”

Like a secret password, a mythical magic formula that opened a cave of hidden treasures like a mature sesame seed, the last barrier holding Claude’s feelings in cracks. 

Grinning, he captures her lips, spurred on by the sheer power of those words. 

“I love you, too. I’ve loved you for so long but never dared say it because – ah! It doesn’t matter now. I love you, my sweet star. I love you…!”

“Hey, Professor?”

Byleth sat up with a start as the voice pulled her out of her deep daydream. Her fingertips and toes were wrinkled as she realised she had drifted off. 

“Yes?” she croaked, not fully recognising whoever was calling out to her. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me!” Leonie’s self-assured, hand-on-hip form appeared from behind the modesty screen. “Are you having a bath?! We have a war meeting this morning, don’t we? I thought we could walk together. Y’know, seeing as Ashe and I will play a big part in the plan.”

Since being informed of her role in the plan to bring in Jeralt’s former mercenary company to aid in defeating the mages, the young huntress had been striding about camp, all cock of the walk. 

I could have asked her to dress as a jester, and she’d still be happy.

A little flushed, Byleth tucked her limbs into the tub, readying to get out. “Sure, I’m going to get dressed now.”

Reluctantly she stood, taking a moment to watch the water droplets trickle down her body. Grabbing her dressing gown, she quickly tied it and moved the screen aside, unveiling the waiting Leonie.

The huntress made a point of taking a big sniff.

“Hm, you smell nice.”

“It’s those oils I got while we were in Almyra. Do you want some?”

The redhead scoffed. “Nah, you know it’s wasted on me. I can’t be bothered to use expensive, fancy stuff on my skin. As long as I’m clean, that’s all that matters.”

Leonie’s natural scent was musty, an undertone of pungent fur and leather, Byleth noted. As sharp and feisty as the woman to which the smell belongs. She had never thought about it, partly because she had never honestly noticed or sensed scent so strongly until recently.

The huntress dipped her hand into the water.

“Crikey, that water’s nice, though!”

“Then do you want to use the water while I’m dressing?”

“Don’t be silly! That’ll make us late.” A short pause and a click of the tongue. “Um, though, maybe I will give my face a splash if that’s okay? Y’know, to make use of it while it’s still good.”

Byleth smiled. “Sure, Leonie. Knock yourself out.”

And as she left her friend to enjoy the water, Byleth hummed Sothis’s song, the same one Rhea once sang on the night of the ball and then hummed to her after she ascended to goddesshood. She never had a chance to ask Sothis whether there were more lyrics or even what the song was called.

Even if I did, she probably wouldn’t remember.

The women made their way towards the war tent.

The camp was fully awake with the sun firmly in the sky, though cloaked by a veil of clouds. Soldiers sharpened weapons, ate broth and sat in circles, chatting away.

It had not escaped Byleth’s notice that many of the Fódlans and Almyrans were beginning to mingle. Not all that long ago, it had been unfortunately common for them to quarrel with one another. She recalled back at that Garreg Mach Monastery when the forces firm combined, Azat, a boy from Hushang in the east of Almyra and Benjamine, a squire from Charon, came to physical altercations with one another over the topic of religion. Being in and around the holiest site in Fódlan made people sensitive to those matters.

Byleth entered the dining hall to bellowing voices as two men circling, screaming slurs and denouncements in their regional dialects and broken koine-glotta.

The sight of her prompted Benjamine to point and declare reverently:

“There! There look! The Archbishop! Lady Byleth! She is living proof of the Goddess’s grace!” Azat turned, rolling his eyes at ‘the sight’ of Byleth. “You have eyes,” Benjamin insisted. “You must see it. You only have to look at her, heathen!”

“Ashtara’sahnarum jabbalah-ha, ins Zodata’sahnarum-ka, ghab!” the Almyran bit back with a tongue click. “He said, ‘She – meaning you – are beautiful because Ashtara made you that way, but the Wise One created everything,’” so Claude guesslated for Byleth later when she garbled a poor variation of what she heard.

Now, there they were: Benjamine was sitting with Azat, along with Nawid and little Oswald, as the lads laughed together, breaking bread. Literally. The Almyran cracked a crusty roll in two and threw a Fódlan, hooting as it bounced between his hands, almost dropping it onto the grass. “Very funny, Az,” Byleth can see Benjamin’s lips mouth, and she cannot help but smile.

We’ve all come a long way in such a short time.

“Hey! Are you even listening to me?!”

Byleth blinked, snapped out of her musings and turned back to Leonie.

“Huh?”

Leonie puffed her cheeks out. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you?”

“I…” But she had no defence other than to apologise. “What were you saying?”

“Hmph. I said that you, Ashe and I should go through what provisions we can take when we leave.”

“Oh. Yes. I’ll speak to Lorenz about it. He’s helping me manage the convoy.”

“So Ashe and I’ll leave – what? Tomorrow, the day after?”

“Probably.”

“Well, that doesn’t give us much time, is all I was saying. If you’d been listening, that is.”

“I said I was sorry, Leonie. I just have a lot on my mind….”

That was becoming her go-to excuse, but Leonie didn’t accept it any more than Pansy. “Well, pull your head out of the clouds! This next battle’s supposed to be the big one, right? Can’t have you spacing out in the field!”

“I’m hardly likely to do that, Leonie,” Byleth replied tartly.

The frown lines on the huntress’s forehead deepened. “There’s a first time for everything, Professor. And I’ll be on a mission to fetch Jeralt’s Mercenaries, right? That means I won’t be there to protect you if something goes wrong.”

“No, Catherine will.”

“Whoa! My ears’re burning!”

The pair turned to see Catherine sauntering towards them. Her cool-blue eyes fell on Byleth. “This is about the plan, huh? So, we’re finally getting out of this place!”

“Over the next week, yes.” Byleth glanced towards the war tent, now only a few paces away. “But we’ll go over it in the meeting.”

Catherine smacked one fist into an open palm. “Sounds good! Let’s get cracking.”

Flinging her arms around the women’s shoulders, she drove them towards the meeting point — the war tent. As the three approached, the tarp suddenly opened to reveal Claude.

Byleth’s pulse skipped a surge at the brief surprise.

He smiled warmly, eyes flickering between Leonie and Catherine before settling back on Byleth. “Thought it might be you.”

Byleth instinctively smiled. 

It had only been twelve hours since they parted ways after tea, yet the relief she felt was as though it had been days. Seeing Claude’s face brought Byleth instant comfort, especially after last night. Yet the grey marks under his eyes looked heavy, and his brow lines were darker than ever. She fought the urge to reach out and stroke his cheek, skin prickling at the memory of how his beard felt beneath her fingers. 

“Good morning. Is… all well?”

Claude’s mouth opened to answer.

“Why! Why wouldn’t it be, Your Grace?!”

Byleth gasped as she spun around.

Nader.

Claude’s jaw stiffened, not attempting to smile now. The coldness between the men caused a shiver to pass through Byleth’s limbs.

“You’re late, Nader.”

“How rude, janob’e-ahli!” The older man jutted his chin at his king. “After all, Her Grace only just arrived, too.”

Suddenly, he bowed down and took Byleth’s hand. Reverently, he planted a kiss upon the skin, cool and dry. 

Byleth’s eyes met Nader’s. She hadn’t seen him since yesterday when he stood at the entrance to Claude’s quarters, yet the expression on his face was virtually identical; stiff smile and eyes filled with cold analysis. It was a look Byleth thought Claude had mastered, that easy smile and eyes gleaming through whoever they fell upon. But Nader’ The Undefeated’ had that look down pat. 

Maybe Nader taught him the power of it.

“Hm, rose oil. An excellent choice, my lady. Very Almyran.” Nader let Byleth’s hand slip from his own, and her arm fell limply to her side. “You honour us, Your Grace.”

He lowered his eyes slightly at Claude.

“After all, we must show ashibanu-ahliah the utmost respect, mustn’t we?”

Though his tone was jovial, Byleth knew he was making fun of her.